Our Bodies Will Make the Raspberries Grow

It has been over a year since those small moments drinking hard liquor and dishing secrets between low ceilings and hyperactive, sweaty bodies. Yancy has graduated and now I am a senior, living on the ink of pens I've abused and those sardonic bathroom stall "rate this sex god" lists. My life has been bland and boring as it's ever been with state exams and college essays to boot. I still work as a cashier/inventory stock girl at Arteca, the most Native-American heritage tribute secondhand book store in the country and I've been dragging on with the most smallest shifts that they could give me. I like to spend most of my time at home because now that my father has been promoted to lieutenant , he is never there.

I've been counting the months since Yancy's gathering and licking over the days until the view dimmed into blotches of yellow and green like wet Polaroids left on the radiator. I've been having reoccurring dreams, those that Freud would mention in his philosophy of wonders, where I am standing in between two tall silhouettes. The silhouette on the left was standing on my shadow, while the silhouette on the right held a triburst les paul in its right hand and had his left hand out stretched towards me. Behind him, there was a door that was obviously wide open, but behind the other silhouette there was a door that was barricaded.

I could never interpret these dreams because often they make zero sense. They also alternate when, apparently, my mind accepts defeat. Several nights, the silhouettes takes the form of my father and, other nights, they take the form of my dead childhood cat (who had died from some type of cancer). Only once, I have seen the face of Yancy. And only once, I have felt remorse.

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It was a Saturday morning that I had awoken without the need of my generic alarm clock and it was a Saturday morning that i lingered in my mother's old sewing room for more than just a few minutes. I had never dared to enter and let my fingers glide through fabric and machinery but that day I day, I dared. I am not sure why this even exists, but I am also not sure why my father keeps my mothers existence on a pedestal, regardless of the fact that she deserted him in a Podunk hick town to fend for himself. I sure don't remember her. Or at least, don't care enough to do so.

I would like to think that I was born and then it was all over, but it was obviously far more difficult than that.

That Saturday Morning, I had opened her closet and ransacked through various coloured dresses that I have seen in pictures that my father keeps in his wallet. Most of the dresses were long and bared a solid colour, like most sun dresses. But, the ones hidden in the back were above the knee dresses with lady-like designs, such as flowers embroided into one side or silly lines that curl into themselves. I don't know. There must of been over 50 dresses in this closet. All, that belonged to a stranger. All, that my body would reject instantly. I dug deeper, pulling dresses off their hangers until I found a long rectangular black box laying on top of a cardboard box labeled "Those Things Within Time". I dragged the cardboard out into the middle of the room and kneel down to remove the black box and to trespass.

I would like to say that I was prepared to what I was going to see, but I wasn't because It was full of distant memories that either belonged to my father or to that woman. I went through a dozen photo albums filled with photographs of my father (think) when he as a teen and a couple of photographs of a woman with blonde hair and hazel eyes. We looked alike face-wise and it made me surprisingly angry, that I shoved the photo albums within it's box and quickly shuffled it closed. I dragged it back into the darkness of the closet and kicked it until it hit the back wall. I turned, without haste, to grab the black box and possibly throw it within the closet. But, instead, I kneel down once more and run my fingers on it's bumpy surface and undo the latches on each side. Within the black box lay a short floral blue dress with no sleeves and a photograph of the same blonde woman sitting on a chair that looked exactly like the chair we have in our living room, with a blue fabric in her hand. She was looking down unto the fabric, with a thread in her hand. I flip the photograph and there lay some kind of message that was written in sharpie :

When you were young, you were the flowers, the trees and the grass below. But, now that you are grown, you are the sun, the moon and the vast sky of the universe beyond. Remember we are only here once and once is not enough. Please, let the second chance surface for another tomorrow.

Rereading the text for the third time, I swallow the last bit of my saliva and drop the photograph into the black box while taking the dress out. I turned it around to see if it was big enough and I strip, suddenly, of all my clothes and slip it on. I did not even bother to look at myself in the mirror because my body did not reject it at all. I felt as if it was made for me and I intended to keep it. I lock the black box once more and place it above the cardboard box in the closet and then, I start to pick up the dresses that had fallen on the floor before and rehang them, closing the closet afterward and escaping the room to my own room. I swing my bedroom door open and ran inside to put a fresh coat of deodorant on and brush my hair (which does not need any brushing). I grab my black hoodie, my jean jacket and a pair of combat boots that i used to wear when I went to a boot camp in 9th grade. I slip my feet into the boots that were scuffed and slightly caked with mud while also attempting to slip on my hoodie and my jean jacket.

I could not explain this feeling that tore at my pores. I, with my entire being, could not even comprehend.

After grabbing all my essentials, I leave my house and run out into the the side walk. My breath quicken and my throat eased in together as I kept running past houses and past street signs.

Was this nostalgia? I did not know.

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When I finally stop running, I had reached a part of my town that I have never been in. All the houses were a shade of either yellow of brown and a lot of the houses bared some kind of lawn ornament that basically gave me the creeps. I stagger around the neighborhood for a few minutes, adding more scuffs to my boots and adding more pain into my calves. At the end of a block, I found a corner store where I bought some Apple Juice, bubblegum and a pack of cigarettes (because they did not ask for ID). I, also, bought a yellow lighter in which i used to light my cigarettes and burn the bubblegum wrappers. I start to walk back to where I was, but a couple of voices had stopped me. They were coming from the lawn of one of the houses in front of me and for some reason, I got scared and hid behind one side of a neighboring house.

Strong, Deep Voice: "Yeah, Go ahead and Git. I need a pack of smokes, anyways."

Softer Voice: "Sure, Sure. Drown your whiskey, Old man."

Strong, Deep Voice: "Old man?! I'm not that much older than you, Motherfucker!"

This was all I could make out from the conversation because then I heard the creek of a door and a screen door swinging wide open. I then heard heavy foot steps on the porch, but then it was silent as if the person was waiting. I quickly get on my knees and turn to face the wall, creeping a bit over to get a look at the person. I couldn't make out his face, but he was pretty tall and styled a red flannel button down shirt and a pair of worn out jeans. I creep a bit closer, watching him stand on his porch as if he was a hawk waiting for his prey to come to him. To my surprise, he began to sing something full of melody and sadness and I couldn't help but move even closer to him.

The Man: "I know you are there"

He says softly, turning his head my direction.

The Man: "Who is hiding over there? I hope you aren't trying to steal that poor old woman's mail."

I jump up from the grass that I had my knees buried in and jump over some flowers that were planted in big brown barrows on the person's lawn. I stand over their flat fence and yell at this man, uncontrollably.

Me: "HEY! WHY THE FUCK WOULD I STEAL MAIL!"

Realizing that I was yelling at this guy, I kind of simmer a bit and turn my head to stare somewhere else. I stand there for a few seconds and then turn back towards him in an attempt to apologize for the outburst.

The Man: "Hey."

He stops me.

The Man: "Wait. Aren't you Gertrude? From that party?"

He pauses for a second and scratches his chin.

The Man: "Yeah! It has to be you. I remember a face. Remember me?"

I obviously didn't. Or maybe, I wasn't thinking hard enough. I had met so many people in that party and I had extremely too much liquor that night. Enough to kill a bear. I narrowed my eyes and kind of gave a shrug to indicate that I didn't really know. He smiled and motioned for me to come to him and I did.

The Man: "Well, I am Conor Oberst, no relation to Starburst. Remember that? We got extremely shit-faced in the kitchen with like cups of red wine and premium whiskey. You were so cute, I mean, you were 16 and all."

My face flushed suddenly and I couldn't help but glare at him.

Me: "It's only been a year, you know. You act as if we are in our old age, loosing teeth and loosing our memory. I remember you."

He strolled down the porch steps and kicked the air between his foot and the potted plants. I watch him, calmly following him down the steps and unto the drive way, where a blast from the past navy blue Cadillac was parked. He jumps over the door of the driver side and smiles at me.

Conor: "Well, I know I am in my old age and that's good. I would of been sad if you didn't. Get in."

And I didn't give it a second thought to his offer. I went around the other side and opened the passenger side because I didn't want to jump over and get mud all over the navy-ish seats and got in, slamming the door behind me. I look around the car, as he starts it up and puts it in reverse. He then shifted it to drive and glided off the drive way and into the road, pushing 40 MPH and then slowing down to 25 MPH. I've never known a car that could even go as fast, mainly because I drive that piece of shit mini van that belongs to my father and I don't really know anyone else with cars. Or care enough, for that matter.

Conor: "You like? I got this thing back in New York."

I turn to him in unexplainable angst.

Me: "You've been to New York?"

He smiled at the sound of my words and makes a left into a high way. He, then speeds up to almost 60 MPH or until whatever hair I had was up in the wind, like in those romantic movies where the husband and wife take a nice drive and the wind is blowing through their hair. The only flaw in this was that the air was passing through my skin so fast that I could barely see.

Conor: "Oh, yeah. I toured over there after passing some hick towns like this one."

He then looks at me side ways and swerves to another lane.

Me: "Toured?

He takes control of the wheel with both of his hands and speeds up to 65 MPH as he swerves to another lane and then down an exit which pretty much felt like i was going down a slippy slide. He keeps his speed until we read the bottom and then slows down to 30 MPH. I let out a sweet single turned whistle as we glide down main street.

Conor: "Toured? Yeah. I have a new band and we are getting really recognized. I mean, my other bands weren't bad or anything, but this one....this one right now is going up into the sky. Or something as relevant as that."

Me: "Oh man, What were your other bands? I mean, were they local?"

He turns his head to look at some of the stores we were passing by and then turns to look at me when we stop at a red light. She opens his hands over the steering wheels and then quickly balls them into fists. I stare at him, cautiously, letting the fumes in my single celled brain breathe words of charisma.

Conor: "Well, Yeah, I guess. My last band was this little group called Commander Venus."

Me: "Hey, nice. I know that band. I used to go to their shows freshman year and talk to Tim. I think he was the bassist. He was friends with Yancy, but , yeah who isn't?"

I fake a small laugh at my attempt joke and turn my head to stare straight to disregard the entire thing. I was not one to make jokes or anything as relevant as that.

Conor: "Really? I don't remember you being around."

I cross my arms over my chest and sort of slump down on the seat.

Me: "Well, I was pretty fat back in freshman year. I, pretty much, just started to look like Jack Skellington's sister."

He started to snicker and his snickering grew to a big gigantic pompous laugh that I've never actually heard before. I glare at my knees and then pick my self up from the kick ass slump i had gotten myself in. He stops at a red light, snorts up another laugh and turns towards me.

Conor: "That was you?!! I remember a fat short girl with wavy hair and glasses always being pushed into Tim by some tall lean kid. I can't believe that was you."

I kept my arms crossed and my eyebrows slanted into a glare. I wasn't necessarily angry, but i liked to let him believe I was. I pull my leg up to my chest and dust off whatever dirt I still had on my knees. I pull up my other leg and do the same. He looks at me side ways until I look back at him.

Me: "Look. Ever since I met Yancy, he has always pushed me to meet new people or get a boyfriend or whatever. So, yeah. He thought that Tim would be a perfect match for me, but I didn't even like him. Seriously, I was so anti-social that I didn't even like going to shows or even going to school."

Conor gave a nice strong laugh as he took a right and then up a hill into a weird, but beautiful clearing of a public forest. I let my eyes wander and explore my new surroundings because I have obviously never been to a place like this before. I turned my head towards him and watched him silently as he talked about how Tim was a bit socially awkward, too and that they actually went to the same school and also how boring school was. I have never shared more than a few words with anybody other than Yancy and it felt incredibly great and strangely exciting, like learning a new language or sky diving.

Conor pulled up into the parking lot near the entrance of the park and parked into an empty row. I unlatched myself from the seat belt and watched above as the roof of the Cadillac slowly attached itself to the front windows. He then pulled out the key from the ignition and i took that as my cue to get out of the car. He locks the car and then we walk up to the entrance, get the okay from the park ranger and walk up the road.

Me: "Where exactly are we?"

Conor looked at me gingerly; pushing his fingers through his dark semi long hair and then managing to scratch his chin. I stood a few inches away from him, but from those few inches he seemed so far ahead of me. I've only known him for a few hours, but it felt as if I've know him for years and just like Yancy; he was gone in an instant. With just a blink, I suppose, I would miss everything.

Conor: "You'll think of this as just a park, but it's far more than any friendship you've acquired or any love a parent can give you. We are the sun, the moon and the vast sky of the universe beyond. Remember we are only here once and once is not enough. Please, let the second chance surface for another tomorrow."

I stare at him in impeccable wonder as my memory of that photograph pushed through my eyes and brain in one swift moment. With my eyes wide and pupils dilated, i moved forward and wrapped my arms around his neck. Letting his eyes gaze me with such absolute sadness, I kiss him faintly on the lips and then I let go; captivating what seemed like endless imperfection and paucity. We stare at each other, until we gather up enough strength to abide up the path and unto the cliff. Once we get there, I sit on this arduous rock while he sits on the grassy terrain and i ask him what he thinks he would say to those who know this story.

Conor: "I would tell them that we were there and we lived perpetually with a undefinable grasp on the fragments of humanity. War and Love meant nothing but funny catch phrases on poster boards and subculture was the cure to all terminal diseases. We lived like gods and died like slaves. We were there. Gertrude. Let me sing you something, especially for you."

And he did. He sang forever.

Forget all the mistakes my love/ They won’t be made again /Leave the photos in the drawer, my love/ We no longer need them/ We both know where we’ve been/ Let’s sail away disappearing in a mist/ Let’s sail away with a whisper and a kiss/ Or vanish from a road somewhere/ Like Tereza and Tomas/ Suspended in this bliss.